Exactly Where I'm At

Games 125 through 128 – Mets

Mets 10, Cardinals 8
Mets 6, Cardinals 2
Phillies 4, Mets 3
Mets 11, Phillies 5
Mets 8, Phillies 3
Record: 80-49

Yes, it’s that time of year again when Whitney, weary of his Mets’ losing ways, grows complacent and allows some dust to collect on the blue and orange side of the MLC launch pad. Except, wait, this year I’ve grown complacent because of their winning ways? Shame on me.

There’s nothing like a pennant race to keep us blogging away, and this is nothing like a pennant race for the Mets. I’m beyond silly superstition at this point, free to talk about the Mets as postseason participants without jinxy repercussion. I’ll even agree – not boast, but agree – that the Mets are far and away the best team in the National League. You won’t hear me talk as if they’re a lock to move on even past the divisional series, because short series were made for underdogs and streaking inferiors (also what Rob, several others, and I were labeled as we dashed through the corridors of Monroe Hall in the 1980’s wearing only 12-pack cardboard helmets), but be happy for the baby steps.

I am reveling in the Mets’ season, despite my recent time AWOL. Since my last check-in I spent time in DC, Richmond, and Nags Head – watching or at least paying attention to the team’s nightly progress, but miles away from this keyboard and the philoso-babble that emanates from it. Today I got to watch John Maine and a host of pen-pals keep the Phillies mostly in check (excluding bombs from Met-killers old and new Pat Burrell and Ryan Howard) while the offense continued to utilize speed, power, and plenty of good fortune to pile up eight more runs at the Phils’ expense.

Even as a plumber dug a hole in my back yard, opened up sewer pipes, and attempted to snake out a disgusting problem 100 feet into the pipe, even as I sweated out the thought of tree removal and massive plumbing bills, even as the smells inside and outside my house made me feeling like Andy Dufresne during his escape, an afternoon taking in a Mets game such as this one propelled me to be Andy Dufresne in the river, arms skyward and free of the normal August/September doldrums of yesteryear.

Today’s worries about starting pitching are real, but what might actually be happening is that the key cogs are getting some late-summer rest before the autumn run. Pedro and Glavine missing time is troubling if there are larger problems at hand. For now, though, I am optimistic that the break in the action for these guys – and El Duque, for that matter – is a well-timed rejuvenator.

For now, I am looking for the Mets to continue to play solid baseball, the skipper to give all the right guys a rest (David Wright looks like he could use three or four days at Canyon Ranch), the injury bug to fly far away, and the Cardinals, Dodgers, and any other playoff-bound clubs to hit enough of a lull to award the Mets at least one advantage come October. There’s plenty of reason for me to still pay attention down the stretch; that was never really in doubt. But there’s also more than enough cause to keep me chiming in to chronicle whatever ups and downs remain in this regular season. See you soon.

Nevermind

Games 128 through 130 - Red Sox

Mariners 6, Red Sox 0
Mariners 4, Red Sox 3
Mariners 6, Red Sox 3

Well, I guess I'll just pour myself a nice warm glass of shut the fuck up and shuffle quietly off to bed.

Fight the Power

I've been meaning to stop by and offer my take on the recent and ongoing Manny vs. Boston Media contretemps, but there's really no need after the always-eloquent Surviving Grady took the words right out of my mouth. Legion of Unstoppable Ass Kickers, indeed.

Insane in the Brain

Games 126 & 127 – Red Sox

Red Sox 5, Angels 4
Red Sox 2, Angels 1
Record: 71-56

I’m slowing regaining equilibrium after last weekend’s traveshamockery, but even as the good guys find ways to win again, the S.S. Red Sox continues to take on water. Last night, as the Sox played their second straight game with Manny Ramirez on the bench with a knee injury, Josh Beckett pitched like Josh Beckett for the first time in weeks. Right up until he cut his finger/incurred a blister in the top of the 7th inning.

All this on top of the news that David Ortiz spent Saturday night in the hospital with an irregular heartbeat that first surfaced after Friday’s twin-killing at the hands of the Yankees. (Insert joke about Sox fans experiencing heart pains during the Yankee series here.) This morning, Mark Loretta was seen walking around the team hotel wearing a dress and a Toledo Mud Hens hat and mumbling something about getting a Section 8 discharge. Hawkeye Schilling just sat back with a bemused look on his face, half-bombed on homemade gin, while Sherman T. Francona tried to figure out why the front office had called Gary Burghoff up from Pawtucket to play middle infield.

In the midst of all this carnage, the Sox picked up a game on the Yankees for the first time in a week. There’s a seed of something germinating deep, deep in the loamy soil of my imagination, and its microscopic form looks something like befuddling, illogical optimism. After spending the entire season riding high and then watching the whole thing come crashing back to the mean, the Sox suddenly find themselves in the often-enviable position of underdogs.

Realistically, these are still the same Sox that are 55-54 against American League opposition (in point of fact, these are a much weaker version of those Sox). The current roster, as related ad nauseum in this space, is a curious mix of stopgaps and prayers, with a still-healthy apportionment of studs (assuming Papi’s ticker holds out). As MLC regular (and that rarest of species, a Yankee fan without a sense of entitlement) Teejay Doyle noted to me Wednesday evening, the Sox thought they’d have an opportunity to let young arms like Manny Delcarmen, Craig Hansen, Jon Lester, and even Jonathan Papelbon gain some seasoning this year – not be forced into the breach repeatedly in high-leverage situations. And still, they’ve got a chance.

The psychology of teams has always fascinated me – some clubs excel as frontrunners, while others spit the bit and fade, or run better from back in the pack. Some clubs need a bit of adversity, need to get punched in the mouth and taste their own blood before they fulfill their potential – anyone remember the 2004 Boston Red Sox?

Maybe it’s the caffeine talking. Maybe I’m just compensating after the soul-crushing events of last weekend. Maybe the Sox will get thumped tonight by the Mariners and I’ll come back here tomorrow and disavow this entire post. But I’m starting to wonder if this team isn’t the personification of the old maxim: if it don’t kill you, it’ll make you stronger.

Yesterday

Game 125 - Red Sox

Angels 4, Red Sox 3

Last night's 10:00 EST first pitch and the culmination of Spike Lee's When the Levees Broke documentary meant that I didn't see more than a snippet of last night's action. Judging by the fraction of the game I did catch, it's probably best for all parties involved that my viewing time was limited.

While I was fortunate to see Dustin Pedroia's first major league hit (and am happy to see one of the important cogs of the 2008 World Series Champion Boston Red Sox get a taste of life in The Show), his effort was balanced by the Three Stooges routine performed by Kevin Youkilis, Mark Loretta, and Gabe Kapler. The trio converged on a Vladimir Guerrero popup in short rightfield before peeling off like so many Wallendas, knees banging into heads, hands getting smashed between body parts, arms flailing ingloriously. Oh, and the ball dropping harmlessly to set up the Angels' 2nd run. It was right about that moment that I decided to punt and give in to merciful slumber.

While I missed most of last night's game, the good folks at Retrosheet.org helped me remember a game that I saw in its entirety. I was in Fenway with my dad and grandfather when Carl Yastrzemski hit his 400th career homer, back when that number meant something. As noted below, he hit it in the bottom of the 7th to break a 3-3 tie and propel the Sox to victory. We were sitting in the rightfield bleachers, about 10 rows back of the A's dugout - where Yaz's blast landed. We had a perfect view of the ball as it traveled a parabola from home in a straight line towards our seats. My other distinct memory of that evening is that the final score was a nearly perfect approximation of the 2 starting pitchers' ERAs entering the game - as a 9 year-old obsessed with baseball stats, I thought that was about the coolest thing in the world. The (probably brutally formatted) box score follows:

Boston Red Sox 7, Oakland Athletics 3
Game Played on Tuesday, July 24, 1979 (N) at Fenway Park
(25 years later - to the day - Jason Varitek would feed Alex Rodriguez a heaping helping of catcher's mitt, sparking the theretofore moribund Sox to a come-from-behind win over the Yankees and, eventually, their first World Series championship in 86 years.)

OAK A 0 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 - 3 8 2
BOS A 2 0 0 0 0 1 2 2 x - 7 10 0

BATTING
Oakland Athletics
AB R H RBI BB SO PO A
Henderson lf 5 0 1 0 0 1 1 0
Murphy cf 4 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
Page dh 4 1 1 0 0 0 0 0
Newman c 3 1 2 1 1 1 1 0
Revering 1b 4 0 1 1 0 0 10 1
Heath rf 3 0 0 0 0 1 0 0
Armas rf 1 0 0 0 0 0 1 0
Gross 3b 3 1 1 1 1 0 1 5
Picciolo ss 4 0 1 0 0 0 2 4
Chalk 2b 3 0 1 0 1 0 7 6
Morgan p 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0
Todd p 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
Totals 34 3 8 3 3 3 24 16

FIELDING -
DP: 3. Picciolo-Chalk-Revering, Picciolo-Chalk-Revering, Gross-Chalk-Revering.
E: Newman (16), Revering (9).

BATTING -
2B: Newman (9,off Eckersley); Picciolo (6,off Eckersley).
3B: Revering (2,off Eckersley).
HR: Newman (19,2nd inning off Eckersley 0 on 0 out); Gross (10,5th inning off
Eckersley 0 on 0 out).
IBB: Gross (8,by Eckersley).
Team LOB: 7.

BASERUNNING -
SB: Henderson 2 (10,2nd base off Eckersley/Fisk 2).

Boston Red Sox
AB R H RBI BB SO PO A
Burleson ss 5 0 1 0 0 0 2 4
Brohamer 2b 4 1 0 0 1 0 0 1
Lynn cf 2 1 1 0 2 0 2 0
Rice lf 4 1 0 0 0 0 1 0
Yastrzemski 1b 3 1 2 3 1 0 13 3
Watson dh 4 1 2 0 0 1 0 0
Fisk c 4 0 1 0 0 0 4 0
Hobson 3b 3 1 1 0 1 0 2 1
Evans rf 3 1 2 3 1 0 1 0
Eckersley p 0 0 0 0 0 0 2 1
Totals 32 7 10 6 6 1 27 10

FIELDING -
DP: 1. Yastrzemski-Burleson.

BATTING -
3B: Hobson (4,off Todd).
HR: Yastrzemski (17,7th inning off Morgan 1 on 2 out); Evans (14,8th inning
off Todd 1 on 1 out).
Team LOB: 7.

PITCHING
Oakland Athletics
IP H R ER BB SO HR
Morgan L(0-6) 7 8 5 2 6 1 1
Todd 1 2 2 2 0 0 1
Totals 8 10 7 4 6 1 2

Boston Red Sox
IP H R ER BB SO HR
Eckersley W(11-5) 9 8 3 3 3 3 2

IBB: Eckersley (3,Gross).
Umpires: Dale Ford, Terry Cooney, Mike Reilly, John Shulock
Time of Game: 2:33 Attendance: 30393

RED SOX 7TH: Brohamer grounded out (second to first); Lynn
reached on an error by Revering; Rice forced Lynn (third to
second); Yastrzemski homered (unearned) [Rice scored
(unearned)]; Yastrzemski becomes the 18th ML and 7th AL with
400 HR; Watson was called out on strikes; 2 R, 1 H, 1 E, 0
LOB. Athletics 3, Red Sox 5.

In 3's

Game 124 – Mets

Mets 8, Cardinals 7
Record: 76-48

They say that good and bad luck occur in threes; before Carlos Delgado could saunter to the plate with a chance to win the game with his third home run of the night, the other Carlos did it for him. Symmetry be damned; my leap off the couch was abbreviated only by a sure calculation that my face was destined for unpleasant contact with the ceiling fan. Aside from that, there was the usual muted but otherwise unrestrained bedlam here; the relative silence (to include a booming clap of hands and a holler that was demoted to a whispered shout by the time of its emanation) was necessary to preserve the slumbers of the wee Met fans of the house, but the flood of fist-pumps and some kind of white boy boogie mixed with an excited few laps around the den more than informed any nosy neighbors of the game’s outcome.

Triumph in triplicate did take place for the Township today, however. As documented earlier, short of learning that the clot in his shoulder was a subcutaneous hope diamond whose removal would add 12 mph and a little movement to his every pitch, Tom Glavine received about the best diagnosis possible. Just when many of us had begun scraping together an image of what a rotation minus Glavine might resemble, it became a needless notion.

Then, somewhere in the middle innings with the score Pujols 7, Mets 1, the booth boys announced that the deal for Shawn Green had become finalized. Time will tell if this middle prong of today’s three-tined fork of fortune can penetrate the porterhouse (honestly, I have no idea, but you know what I mean . . . maybe), but somewhere amid my grumbling in the dark about a certain unnamed St. Louis first baseman’s circumstantial connection to illicit performance-enhancing substances, this trade’s news generated a smile and a nod. It’s nice to see Omar, far from complacent, making the low-risk, high-potential moves. It gives us a sense that he has a master plan out there at Shea; if I recall, we weren’t even sure that Jim Duquette had a master key. (As always, we disparage Duquette only with the appended acknowledgement that he was on the recipient end of a “Muppet Special” by the Wilpons, mind you.) But Green seems to fit into the Mets Needs category nicely, checking off the corner outfielder, left-handed bat, and Judaism (in case Denis Leary and Lenny Clarke drop by the booth) boxes nicely.

The third tier of the trifecta was, of course, the game’s conclusion. John Maine actually pitched a fairly decent ballgame tonight, minus his lack of respect for Albert Pujols. He showed little concern with keeping Pujols’ plate predecessors off the paths, and even less for avoiding chucking something even mildly meaty in his direction. He didn’t walk the MVP candidate with men on second and third, and he paid for it. Then he did walk the two batters before him to load the bases, and he paid for it. Two swings, seven runs. Even as it was happening to the Mets, I was feeling more tip-the-cap than gnash-the-teeth. The dude is good.

Carlos Delgado, who seems to have swum upstream the length of the river to fight through a bad slump, is looking a whole lot more like that beast of the first six or eight weeks than the free-flailing, shoulder-pulling, befuddled fellow of more recent months. It’s as welcome a sight at this time of year as I can think of, along with Duaner Sanchez warming in the pen after applying a balm and healing magically. His solo shot opened the scoring; his grand salami made the game worth sticking around for.

Carlos Beltran has been far more consistent all year long, but in the bottom of the ninth he entered the box with an 0-for-4 night. Speaking of his consistency, how is he still hitting just .288? He’s been steady all season, and he’s not over .300? Meanwhile, David Wright has been dying a slow death at several intervals and he’s been perched above .300 all along? (Okay, I just checked, and the latest collar Dee-Dub took tonight edged him down to .299.) Regardless, with Beltran up, nobody out and Paul LoDuca on first after a single, I felt curiously comfortable – even down a run with three outs left to play with and Jason Isringhausen on the hill. This lineup will do that to you.

One pitch later, the game was over and I was in mid-air, moreso than a guy of my poundage can usually muster.

There were more things to praise, with new Met (and old enemy) Guillermo Mota looking sharp in his debut for New York, Chad Bradford drawing Pujols into a 6-4-3 inning-ender with a couple aboard in the eighth, and Aaron Heilman shutting the Cards down in the ninth to enable the heroics and earn the win. There’s more minutia to discuss, such as Bill Clinton in attendance (where he goes, drama follows), Delgado hitting his 400th career homer, and the Mets reaching a double-digit lead in the National League.

But I’m content to focus on the trio of excitingly positive events in MetLand today. Tomorrow’s another day and the Mets could just as quickly find themselves in triage rather than triumph. Tonight, however, these three developments have made me one happy man.

Blue Skies

Just got word that Tommy Glavine doesn't have the "knot" that would have required surgery, just the clot(s) that are doing good work inside his old body. And there was much rejoicing. Now we can stop worry about who in hell might be our ace or, Pedro willing, our #2 down the stretch and get back to worrying about why Glavine resembles very little of the lights-out brilliant pitcher he was in April and May.

Whew.

Voices Carry

Nice article in today's Boston Globe by the estimable Bob Ryan. I agree with nearly every word, the notable exception being his characterization of the Yankees as a "likable and rootable team". I don't even think 'rootable' is a word.

I find Ryan's concluding thesis extremely on point and thought provoking. He writes,

Once upon a time, losing brought a brief period of sorrow. Now it brings
rage. The rest of the season, I fear, will not be much fun.

The truth is we need to sit down and figure out what sports are all
about. We've lost our way.

He's right - you can read my comments here over the past few weeks for proof. It's part and parcel of the coursening of manners and public dialogue in the country at large and of the increasing and dangerous spoils-to-the-winners approach of our political and economic elites. I need to ponder on this for a bit, but my eyes are open.

Paint it Black

Game 124 - Red Sox

Yankees 2, Red Sox 1
Record: 69-55

This'll be interesting. I've never had to chronicle the playing out the string portion of a baseball campaign here at MLC. 38 games worth of going through the motions are all that's left of this smoking wreck of a season.

The Happiest Days of Our Lives / Mother . . .

Games 119 through 123 – Mets

Phillies 3, Mets 0
Mets 7, Phillies 2
Mets 6, Rockies 3
Mets 7, Rockies 4
Mets 2, Rockies 0
Record: 75-48

The formerly even-keel Mets have undergone an unsteady patch of late, and while it’s not extremely unsettling, I look forward to a return to the “take two of three with cautious optimism” pattern that the Mets followed for four-plus months. While the coaster-car sped uphill over the weekend, news that a few spokes might be out in a valley below have us residents of the Township a little on edge.

The Mets capped off a wretched trip to Philadelphia (Rob would argue that there’s no other kind) with an impressive Thursday afternoon win. It was a soothing salve to the almost worrisome stumble the Metmen took over the first three games of that series. It’s funny what power the first and final games of a series can carry; tones for the games that follow are definitively struck, and the return to Shea – and all of the weekend hoop-la that was in store – was made on a significantly brighter note after the four-game sweep was thoroughly thwarted on Thursday.

By “hoop-la,” in case you missed it, I mean the celebration of the 20th anniversary of the 1986 championship team. I generally dismiss such events as contrived and sometimes awkward remembrances, and I eyed this weekend’s in exactly that way. I was wrong.

After a lead-in to Saturday’s game that consisted of a flurry of ’86 Met-related pieces on Sportsnet New York (which I was able to see and record thanks to my long overdue activation of the full sports package on the satellite), the Mets geared up to play the Colorado Rockies while donning their primo 1986 uniforms. (“The piping” was mentioned in nearly every ounce of coverage.) Before they did so, however, each of the available members of the championship Mets appeared from the stands, was announced, and came onto the field to be recognized. The old Mets were consistently portly, sporting far less hair, and beaming from ear to ear across the board. God love ‘em.

As opposed to the half-hearted attendance that some of these anniversaries manage, nearly every guy on the 1986 club, from GM genius Frank Cashen to part-timer Ed Hearn, showed up and embraced the night. (Missing were Davey Johnson, Ray Knight, Roger McDowell, and Dwight Gooden; McDowell’s the Braves’ pitching coach – for now, and Doc’s in prison; don’t know where Davey and Ray were, but it was their loss.) After the gathering of Kid, Straw, Mex, Nails, El Sid, Mookie, and all of the other guys we loved and they hated, the game began (after a little rain) and the SNY booth – ordinarily manned by two among that crew, received inning-long visits from many of the old gang. The highlight, predictably, was Dykstra. Still love that dude. Somehow the evening superseded the hoop-la, the hype, and the sensational NYC media coverage that usually dwarf such moments.

For Red Sox fans who lived through the ’86 Series, it surely would have agitated; for indifferent fans, it probably mildly interested; for young Mets fans, it certainly intrigued; for we who died a painful death or two in 1986, only to be resuscitated and taken to unbelievable heights . . . it was awesome. The memories of that year linger somewhere in the back of our minds like an overstuffed couch, exceedingly comfortable but often unremarkable. The elevation of these recollections to the collective conscious provided thrills all over again in a way I’d not figured would happen.

Rob has a horde of still-fresh thoughts about the Sox’ 2004 experience even as he curses his way through the current chapter of Boston baseball. He should rest assured that even if the Red Sox are working on another ugly drought of titles two decades from now, what went down two years ago can still be tugged to the surface with ease, ushering in that same excitement and contentment with an added twist of nostalgic “where I was back then” fondness.

Doesn’t reduce his ire today one iota, but it’s a far cry better than a trail of all angst.

Oh, and as if it mattered, the Mets went ahead and played the game Saturday night. As if orchestrated for ratings, New York went down 4-0, only to rally on a succession of alternately bizarre and clutch plays. Terrible Rocky errors coupled with a Met tandem of patience and aggressiveness resulted in a six-run inning; Lastings Milledge topped off his brilliant, image-inverting (to me, at least) night with a bomb to left to pad the lead. Winning the game in the same find-a-way fashion that carried the ’86 team was thrilling; that word risks overstatement but comes in under the wire.

Comparisons of the current roster to the Mets club that was honored Saturday night are cursory and dangerous; watching the coverage over the weekend underscored how rife with talent that squad was. To win you have to be good, well coached, and lucky. The ‘86ers were sublime on all counts. The ‘06ers are . . . well, they might qualify in each category, but not by as decisive a margin.

In the postseason, Gooden-Darling-Ojeda-Fernandez versus Martinez-Glavine-Trachsel-Hernandez? It’s not a whitewashing, but it’s a fairly solid win for the old fellers. Willie Randolph doesn’t appear to be the next Davey Johnson, though he’s not a real liability, either. On the plus side, the luck has appeared to go the Mets’ way all season – that is until recently. And on that note, the first comparison in this paragraph gets asterisked.

All of the good vibes of celebration weekend came grinding to an expletive-filled halt yesterday as I saw the following text appear on the ESPN ticker:

Tom Glavine is having his pitching shoulder examined for a possible blood clot; he felt coldness in his ring finger after Wednesday’s start; season-ending surgery could be required

Son of a bitch. With Pedro already on the DL (again), the Mets’ short staff rotation would currently look a bit like this:

Trachsel-Hernandez-Maine- uh . . .
Mike Pelfrey? Dave Williams? Brian Bannister? Oliver Perez? Aaron Heilman?

Oh, my. The New York lineup is stacked, but not that prodigiously. The jury is still out on the injury, and the Township now crosses its collective fingers for Glavine – fingers also grown cold, as the blood seems to have drained from our extremities as we wait for the news.

And yet, we’ll not let this half of this space fall into self-pity. A lot can happen between now and October – and since we fully expect to be playing into that month, we’ll hope for the best, prepare for the worst, and be glad this news hits us in summer rather than autumn. The Met train shall roll on; here’s hoping that Tom Glavine has his usual seat in first class for the ride.

Pain Makes You Beautiful

Game 123 – Red Sox

Yankees 8, Red Sox 5 (10)
Record: 69-54

At some point, you’ve got to look around at all the kids with their WWPD bracelets, and really ask yourself, “What Would Pedro Do?” Well, as he’s publicly stated in much less dismal circumstances, you just tip your cap and call the Yankees your daddy.

The Sox gave the Yankees everything they had yesterday, and it still wasn’t good enough. Mostly because everything they had included Mike Timlin. Curt Schilling and Jonathan Papelbon were nearly biblical last night in their efforts – Schilling missed his location once, and it cost him 3 runs. Papelbon authored perhaps the best performance I’ve ever seen in a blown save, entering the game in a bases-loaded no-out situation in the top of the 8th and yielding only a single run, then battling back from a man on third, no-out pickle in the bottom of the 9th to get within 1 out of victory. After consecutive strikeouts of Bernie Williams and Johnny Damon, Papelbon made a terrific 0-1 pitch to Derek Jeter, and the Yankee shortstop fought it off, dumping a bloop single into short right field to plate the tying run. Great pitch, great job of hitting, and effectively, game over.

The objective and subjective facts are damningly clear at this point. The Yankees are a much better team than the Red Sox. That may not have been true at other points in the season, but it’s dramatically so right now. The Sox effectively have 2 reliable pitchers at the moment, through a combination of injury-related attrition and just-plain mediocrity. As much as Timlin might wish to, the Sox staff can’t blame the offense – 25 runs in 4 games against the Yankees ought to be good for more than zero wins.

I can swallow hard and stomach the asskicking the Yankees handed the Sox this weekend – with 1 more merciful whipping to come – because I’ve been painfully aware of the Sox’ deficiencies for some time now. See below, and below, and below ad nauseum. What I can’t abide is the predictable ballwashing emanating from the national media this morning about the Yankees’ amazing pluck in recovering from adversity to take over the division. No less an expert than Dick Vitale fellated Brian Cashman and Joe Torre and their managerial acumen in overcoming the loss of Hideki Matsui and Gary Sheffield. Fuck me sideways, already. The Yankees are once again a very good team – no argument here on that point. They are not, however, some scrappy band of David Ecksteins, surviving on guile and duct tape. Probably more to come on that point when it sounds less like sour grapes.

It’s worth noting that the Sox are now 6-14 since Jason Varitek got hurt. Even as he was putting up mediocre offense numbers, the captain was a stabilizing force behind the plate. I don’t think many of us knew just how much that stability mattered. Theo Epstein is getting killed in the Nation right now for not making any major moves at the trade deadline, but I think he looked around and made a difficult but accurate assessment about his team’s chances. I think he folded an off-suited King/9 to live to play another day. And as much as my churning stomach and racing heart hate it during games, my head thinks he probably made the right call. One more starting pitcher – even the rumored Roy Oswalt – wouldn’t be enough to get this team to the finish line ahead of the pack.

I’m not ready to go Dandy Don Meredith on the Sox just yet. They’ll get Timmy Wake back soon, and David Wells may actually have some life. They do get 4 more against the Yankees, and if they didn’t get at least a little bit fired up by the guts Schilling and Papelbon displayed, then they’re not human. I’m counting on professional pride, if nothing else, to give them a lift down the stretch. All that said, don’t be looking for any eras of positivity in this space over the next 6 weeks.

F.U.

Game 122 - Red Sox

Yankees 13, Red Sox 5
Record: 69-53

I've never been happier to have to go to a 5 year-old's birthday party in my life. My wife dragged me from my house just as Manny Delcarmen gave up the Sox' 10th walk and let the Yankees' 7th run jog to the plate. Mercifully, I didn't have to watch the rest of the carnage.

I was 8 years old during the original version of the Boston Massacre in 1978, so I really appreciate the 2006 Sox providing a bit of a historical primer for those of us not quite old enough to really recall the bitter feeling of getting absolutely smoked by the Yankees in a critical home series.

On the other hand, I was 34 years old the only time I've ever felt worse about a Sox performance against the Yankees - right after Game 3 of the 2004 ALCS. I think we recall how that turned out, even the pinstriped in our midst. Man, that's a really wispy limb out on which to climb, but beggars can't be choosers, and the Sox have made sure that the Nation is populated by panhandlers at the moment.

Almost makes me wish we had to attend another little kid's birthday party tomorrow.

Counting on a Miracle

Game 121 - Red Sox

Yankees 14, Red Sox 11
Record: 69-52

More than 12 hours later, and I'm still nail-chewing mad. Galvanized nails. Against all reason.

The Sox demonstrated for all the world why they'll be playing out the string over the next 6 weeks instead of making a run for the playoffs. I should be resigned to it, because nobody in their right mind should expect a team missing 60% of its starting rotation, its opening day closer, and 2 key starters to contend. I get it, in a big picture way, but that rational worldview clouds over in the time it takes Derek Jeter to reach out and poke a poorly located Mike Timlin fastball into the rightfield corner.

Not much more to say, at least without resorting to the same colorful language that echoed around my darkened house at around midnight yesterday. Still 3 more in Boston against the Yankees, but it looks like the strain of too many innings thrown by too many too young arms has finally taken its toll.

One

Game 120 – Red Sox
Live Game Thread

Yankees 12, Red Sox 4

5:03 p.m.

Just a lousy game all the way around. 16 hits and 7 walks allowed by the pitching staff. 11 men left on base by the bats. 2 errors by the presumptive best defense in the American League (oh, hey, great - NOW Youkilis gets a 2-out hit). Blech. I'm too lazy to look it up, but I think the Sox are like 0-38 in games liveblogged by MLC. I think I'll grab a beer or 6 and watch tonight's effort from my couch.

4:53 p.m.

I don't think it's much a stretch to label tonight's game the most important of the season for the Sox. Tough spot in which to put Jon Lester, but if the Sox can't batter Sidney Ponson and give the youngster some breathing room, they probably don't deserve to play much October baseball. On the bright side, the Yankee position players have to be tired from all this running of the bases.

4:46 p.m.

Is there any question that A-Rod hits a grand slam here to cap things off with the Yankees up 8 in the 9th inning?

4:38 p.m.

From my keyboard to Damon's bat, as Johnny runs his RBI total to 4. Okay, for my next trick, I'm gonna turn this bullpen into a newt.

4:36 p.m.

The Gonzalez/Crisp black hole ensures that the Sox leave 2 more on base in the 8th, then Rudy Seanez bookends the abysmal pitching performance by loading the bases with none out in the 9th. Wanna bet the Yanks get to double figures here?

4:07 p.m.

Loretta doubles. Again. Papi does nothing. Again. Youkilis strands a runner in scoring position. Again. The Sox go down with a whimper. Again.

3:56 p.m.

Yanks pull their Wang out with nobody gone in the bottom of the 7th. I'm a bit surprised that they'd do so with a 5-run lead and a tired bullpen. I'm not at all surprised that I'm resigned to making terrible dick jokes.

3:47 p.m.

And the Yankees make them pay. Mike Lowell's error opened the floodgates, and on top of his bases-loaded popout makes him the primary horn-wearer this afternoon.

3:27 p.m.

With good reason. Motherfucker. You've got to, got to, got to score more than 1 run in that situation. Geekage alert - the basic run expectancy table tells us good students that the average 2nd and 3rd, no out situation yields 1.91 runs. The Sox just underachieved by what will likely be the Yankees' margin of victory. And I repeat - motherfucker.

3:26 p.m.

This. Is. Torture. Hinske is quickly becoming a legend, but Lopez can't score anyone with runners on 2nd and 3rd and none out, and now the Sox are relying on Alex Gonzalez and Coco Crisp. You'll forgive me if my confidence is a bit low.

3:10 p.m.

And the Sox are about to follow up the Yankee outburst with a meager 1-2-3. Papi sure looks impatient on the GameCenter - another 1st-pitch out.

And Manny makes me an idiot with a longball. Better claw back in a hurry, because the opportunities draw short with a rested Fruitbat in the back of the pen.

3:04 p.m.

Awesome. Kyle Snyder’s turn to face the Yankees, and he gets to start with Giambi and Rodriguez. This should be super.

Just like Johnson in the opening frame - could've been worse. Damage done, though - Yankees up 3.

2:51 p.m.

Remember that deal with the devil thing I was talking about. Ironic that the erstwhile Johnny Jesus delivered the retribution.

2:41 p.m.

Hinske. Damn. Would that he and Loretta were closer together in the lineup.

Try this on for size – the following figures represent the OPS’ against right-handed pitching for Crisp, Youkilis, Hinske, and Lowell:

.718 (with a .328 OBP)
.843 (.385 OBP)
.950
.869

So it stands to reason perfectly that Coco bats first and Youks, Lowell and Hinske go 5-7. Cripes, Tito, even the blind kid from Dumb n’ Dumber could figure this crap out. Youks leads off, Hinske bats 5th, Lowell 6th, and Crisp 7th or 8th.

Hey! Manufactured run. Somewhere Joe Morgan is smiling, even though the Sox should've plated more.

2:22 p.m.

Let it be said that the Sox are getting opportunities against Wang - they just aren't capitalizing. Yet.

That "yet" is for you Mike Lowell, and it applies to the entire 2nd half of the season...well, that worked like a charm.

The Sox are making an ugly deal with the devil here - Johnson's thrown 62 pitches already, and the Sox have left 6 men on base through 3 innings. This game is a microcosm of the whole season, and we're only 1/3 of the way done.

2:17 p.m.

They just closed the SoSH Game Thread to the public. Effers. I guess it serves me right for losing my password.

Mark Loretta’s doing his part – 2-for-2 with a pair of doubles. Patience, Papi.

1:56 p.m.

A co-worker interrupted right in the middle of Youks’ 1st-inning at-bat. Since the score is now 1-0 entering the top of the 3rd, I’m assuming he got out.

Whit – thanks for the color commentary. Now go find the Sox some runs.

1:37 p.m.

True fact: Chien-Ming Wang has pitched 161.1 innings in 2006 after never going more than 150 in his career. He's also got the lowest K/9 ratio of any pitcher in the major leagues. Conclusion: those 2 first-pitch outs the Sox just made are brilliant baseball.

1:28 p.m.

Well slap my ass and call me Sally. Johnson limits the damage. Fools' gold, or harbinger of things to come?

1:25 p.m.

The SoSH server is going to crash any moment now. The natives are quite restless. Full count on A-Rod here - the ensuing 3-run homer is soooo predictable.

1:19 p.m.

Yep. That’s Jason Johnson showing his Jason Johnsonness. 1-0 Yanks on a Damon triple and a Jeter single. It’s gonna be a looooong afternoon – and I haven’t even started with the Wang/Johnson jokes.

1:06 p.m.

I can already tell it’s going to be torture watching this thing unfold via the MLB Gamecenter. Damn you 40-hour workweek.

12:49 p.m.

As noted in the comments below, the assembled brain trust here at MLC is looking at a Craig Wilson vs. Manny Delcarmen deathmatch for all the marbles. Which means that Papi will probably take Rivera deep to win the game.

Game 1 prediction, and there's not much the Sox can do about it: Yankees get to Johnson early and often, but Tito leaves him in to take the pounding because the Sox are sending him to Pawtucket after the game to add Keith Foulke to the roster. Johnson saves the bullpen, but gives up 8 earned in 6 innings. Wang's moderately better, and the Yankees prevail, 10-5.

If, and it's a big if, the Sox can get into the Yankee bullpen early in the first game today, it could be a long series for the Yankee staff after the Orioles made their long arms throw a bunch yesterday.

11: 17 a.m.

Here are the starting lineups for today’s first game:

Boston

1. Coco Crisp, CF

2. Mark Loretta, 2B

3. David Ortiz, DH

4. Manny Ramirez, LF

5. Kevin Youkilis, 1B

6. Mike Lowell, 3B

7. Eric Hinske, RF

8. Javy Lopez, C

9. Alex Gonzalez, SS

New York

1. Johnny Damon, CF

2. Derek Jeter, SS

3. Bobby Abreu, RF

4. Jason Giambi, DH

5. Alex Rodriguez, 3B

6. Robinson Cano, 2B

7. Jorge Posada, C

8. Craig Wilson, 1B

9. Melky Cabrera, LF

Must resist urge to club Coco Crisp. Not his fault that the manager keeps ignoring fundamental wisdom and pushing Kevin Youkilis down in the order. Not the manager’s fault that nobody (other than the missing Wily Mo Pena) in the lineup after the No. 4 slot has a slugging percentage that would make you more than mildly intoxicated were it your blood alcohol content.

Eric Hinske gets his first start in a Sox uniform after coming over from Toronto. Intruguing, as he hits righties with some aplomb.

I wonder if Johnny Damon’s gonna cry again when he gets booed to lead off the game.

Jesus, that Yankee lineup is right scary.

10:45 a.m.

Since there’s no realistic expectation that I’m going to get anything remotely productive accomplished today, figured I’d belly up to the bar and order a tall shot of liveblogging. Today might be reason enough for Whit and I to examine the podcasting phenomenon – while my voice is almost certainly 3 octaves too high for public consumption, though still huskier than Bill Simmons’, the animation and profanity is bound to be entertainment for the masses. (Man, try to diagram that last sentence. I’m reading the new Cormac MacCarthy book, No Country for Old Men, and am pained to note that he would’ve squeezed 7 crisp, weighted sentences out of the number of words I just vomited onto the page.)

On the good omen side, today’s a major Jimmy Fund telethon on Boston radio station WEEI. On the negative side of the ledger, Jason Johnson is still starting for the Sox.

Armageddon Time

Games 114 through 119 - Red Sox

Red Sox 9, Orioles 2
Red Sox 8, Orioles 7
Red Sox 11, Orioles 9
Tigers 7, Red Sox 4
Tigers 3, Red Sox 2
Red Sox 6, Tigers 4
Record: 69-50

My sanity, nursed back to health by the California sunshine (Monterey is so choice. If you have the means, I highly recommend it.) and a Sox-free week, is 4 hours from being sorely tested once again. When last my shadow darkened this space, the Sox were reeling, battered about by the league’s cellar-dwellers. Somewhere, off in the distance, you could hear a soft, feeble current carrying hope that this weekend’s series with the Yankees might mean something, but it was a hope born of obligation to the cause, lacking any real conviction.

Lo and behold, the magic balm of the Charm City 9 once again cast a restorative spell on the Sox offense, as the Sox extended their mastery of the Orioles before stumbling slightly against the Tigers. The Angels and O’s both played the Yankees tough, and I emerge from my brief sabbatical blinking against the klieg lights of a made-for-TV epic.

New York. Boston. 5 games in 4 days with the fate of the free world in the balance. I exaggerate, but only slightly more than the talking heads in Bristol and their counterparts in the sports media megadome.

In keeping with my recently discovered cleansing rituals, I’m trying to keep a lid on expectations for the series, especially knowing that the Sox will be running out Jason Johnson this afternoon against Chien-Ming Wang. Jon Lester takes his gifted left arm out to the hill in the nightcap, but he also brings his youth and recent wildness with him. Trust me when I say that I’d be more than happy with a split in today’s action.

Beckett, Schilling, and Wells take the ball in the series’ final 3 games against Randy Johnson, Mike Mussina, and Cory Lidle. On paper, all 3 of those contests are tighter than Mel Gibson on a Saturday night. Paper, though, hasn’t proven over the past several weeks to be worth much more than that Rick Ankiel rookie card I’ve got framed in the den. And that’s one of the maddeningly beautiful things about baseball – all the predictions and guesswork amount to exactly bupkes in this most unpredictable of games. Only in baseball can Jason Johnson, Miguel Cairo, Rudy Seanez, Nick Green, or Alex Cora mean more than Manny Ramirez, Mariano Rivera, or David Ortiz on any given day. Okay, I take back the Ortiz part, but my point remains otherwise intact.

Nothing to do, then, but watch the games and see what happens – and try really hard not to break any furniture or small appliances.